


Violent Heart

by megxmas



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megxmas/pseuds/megxmas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek opens the door, he’s blasted with the scent of pain. Deep, intense, visceral pain.<br/>Stiles is bloody, broken, and small.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violent Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features the aftermath of a referenced, non-graphic rape. Please do not read if you're likely to be triggered or upset by this.

When Derek opens the door, he’s blasted with the scent of pain. Deep, intense, visceral pain. He’d heard Stiles approach, heard the sputtering engine of the jeep and Stiles’ unsteady steps to the door, and he’d opened it before Stiles had had the chance to knock. 

The second thing Derek notices about Stiles is how small he looks. He’s got both arms wrapped around his torso, as if he’s trying to hold himself together, and his head is lowered, eyes glancing up at Derek with a fear Stiles hasn’t directed at him in a long time. Stiles looks vulnerable. Young. 

He’s hurt. Most of the pain Derek can smell isn’t physical, but one glance in Stiles’ direction would be enough to see that he’s been really badly beaten. His face is bruised and gaunt, one eye black, nose running slightly with blood. He has a thick cut down one cheek, cuts on his hands, a cut on his hairline. He’s holding himself as if his ribs hurt, and Derek can see a red stain on his shirt just to the left of where his bellybutton would be. Despite the cold, he’s only wearing what looks to be a very thin long-sleeved shirt, and Derek can see him shivering slightly. 

There’s nothing of the supernatural about his injuries, and Derek’s inside clench. This is wrong. 

He’s about to put a hand out to Stiles, to usher him inside and get him a jacket before driving him to the hospital, when Stiles speaks, low and quiet. “Can I use your shower?”

The question throws Derek, is not even slightly what he was expecting, and his face must betray his confusion, because Stiles quickly follows it up with, “Just quickly, please. Ten minutes?”

And suddenly Derek is even more worried, because this Stiles is so very different from the Stiles he knows. The Stiles he knows wouldn’t be so shaken by a simple beating. His voice is whispered and uneven, but measured. As if he’d thought carefully about what he needed to say. And why a shower?

Derek begins to speak, manages a, “Stiles,” before he realizes he doesn’t know quite how to put his concern into words. He steps back and Stiles stumbles in, and Derek closes the door behind him, listening intently to his violent heart beat out a rhythm against his chest. “Stiles, sit down and I’ll get you a glass of water, okay?”

Stiles shakes his head, arms still tight around himself, keeping those pieces of himself intact, and says, “I’m fine, just a shower and I’ll be gone.”

Derek can already sense a losing battle, doesn’t want to do anything to freak Stiles out and make him leave when he so clearly needs help, so he nods, and says, “Sure, okay, just take a seat and I’ll grab you some clothes and stuff.”

Stiles hesitates, glances around the room warily, before nodding and sitting awkwardly on the couch. Derek lets his gaze rest on him for a moment before leaving the room and going to grab the first-aid kit from the bathroom, and some of his smaller sweats from his bedroom. He has no intention of letting Stiles shower, plans to simply clean his wounds a little, get him changed and get him to hospital. He begins an internal debate about when would be best to call the Sheriff, how to tell him his son has been attacked, probably mugged. Wonders whether it would be better to do it after he’s less shaken and his wounds not so sore, or if he’d be better off knowing right away.

When he returns, Stiles is running a hand across his cheek hurriedly, as if he’s afraid of Derek seeing him cry. “Hey,” Derek says, careful and low, sitting on the coffee table in front of Stiles. “I’m gonna clean up your injuries a bit, get you changed, and then drive you to the hospital, okay? Once we’re there I’ll call your dad.”

He expects a little reluctance from Stiles – the kid never did seem to want to accept help when he needed it – but he doesn’t expect the violence with which Stiles shakes his head. His eyes are wet again and his fists are clenched at his sides. “No, no, no hospitals, please. Please. Just a shower and I’ll be fine.”

“Stiles, you’re really hurt, okay? You need a hospital. A shower isn’t going to help you.”

“No, no,” Stiles replies, voice still shaking. Derek can hear his heartbeat begin to race. “I’m not – I’m not that hurt, please, I’m okay.”

Derek shakes his head then, can’t begin to understand why Stiles is so against getting treated. “I’m not letting you go until I’m sure you’re okay. At least let me take a look at your injuries.”

Stiles focuses his gaze on Derek’s hands, and Derek spreads them, palms up, pleading. He takes a moment to consider, apparently weighing up his discomfort at being treated by Derek with his pain, and eventually sighs and says, “Fine. But a shower after?”

Derek nods instinctively, doing what he needs to in order to keep Stiles safe, where he can see him, but something clicks in Derek at Stiles’ words. He looks at how he’s sitting, how he’s holding himself, how jumpy yet distant he is. How desperate he is to wash. Derek’s insides clench again. 

“Stiles, what happened?”

Stiles doesn’t answer straight away, takes a moment, before saying, “I was attacked.”

It’s not a lie. “What sort of attack?”

Derek listens carefully. “They took my phone and wallet.” 

He’s still not looking directly at Derek. It’s still not a lie.

“So they were muggers?”

Stiles is silent. Stiles knows Derek can detect lies. Stiles knows what Derek’s thinking. His heart is beating so fast, it’s almost deafening. 

Stiles, on the other hand, speaks so quietly that even Derek almost misses it. “Can we just please do this?” 

Derek nods and starts unpacking the first aid kit on the table. When everything’s out, he carefully reaches for the hem of Stiles’ shirt. He sees Stiles flinch and he slows his movements, saying, “Sorry,” as he drags the shirt over Stiles’ head. Bare-chested, Derek can see that Stiles’ torso isn’t as badly injured as he’d feared. There’s some bruising around the ribs which he assumes means broken ribs, and there’s a nasty scrape where the red stain had been, but otherwise he’s reassuringly unharmed. Derek had wondered about stabbing, initially. 

He cleans the scrape and minor cuts carefully, apologising quietly for how it stings. He takes a little pain as he works, enough to help but not enough to be noticeable, and he sees Stiles relax a little. He salves the bruises and then does the same to Stiles’ face, fingers gently tracing his jawline. Stiles sits silently, still not meeting Derek’s eyes. When Derek is done with Stiles’ face, he looks to his arms, and tries very hard not to think about what exactly the thick red sores around Stiles’ wrists, and the dirty scrapes on his hands mean. Instead, he cleans and salves them, sensing every time Stiles winces, or his breath hitches. He’s frantically trying to figure out what his next move should be, who he should call, how he’s going to convince Stiles to go to the hospital. 

When Stiles’ top half is patched up with what bandages Derek has, he takes his sweatshirt and gently helps Stiles into it. He can see Stiles relax a little as the warmth of the soft material envelops him, and Derek’s thankful he could at least offer him that. 

Derek knows Stiles probably has injuries on his lower half too, would be surprised if he didn’t, but he doesn’t rate his chances of getting a look too highly. If he were Stiles, he wouldn’t let Derek do that either. 

He tries, anyway. “Stiles, can I - ?” He gestures awkwardly to Stiles’ belt and immediately feels stupid. Stiles is all of a sudden stiff, on guard, his bandaged hands clenched again. “Sorry,” Derek says, “but if you’re hurt down there you have to let me look. Or let someone else look.”

Stiles shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. “Can I just have my shower?”

Derek slowly reaches out a hand and touches it gently to the back of Stiles’. His eyes spring open in a moment of panic before relaxing, and his eyes meet with Derek’s for the first time. Derek’s heart clenches at what he sees; they’re red and bloodshot, wet and painful looking. There’s so much pain in them. Stiles looks away.

“Stiles. I’m going to call your dad, okay?”

Stiles is then shaking his head again, saying “no, please Derek,” but Derek knows what he needs to do, knows what he should have done as soon as he opened the door. 

“Why don’t you want to tell him?” Derek says, quietly.

“I just – please, Derek, I - I can’t.” There’s a moment of silence before he says, “I’ll just say I was mugged, he doesn’t have to know, please.”

Derek moves slightly forward, slowly, reaches his hands out gently to rest on Stiles’ shoulders. “Stiles. You know that’s not true, don’t you? You know he has to know, right?”  
There’s tears falling down Stiles’ cheeks now, and Derek wishes desperately that he could fix this, somehow. “Stiles, you need the hospital, they need to do a rape kit, and you need your dad.”

Stiles’ heart falters at the word ‘rape’, and Derek feels the last shred of hope that he’d clung to slip away. His tears are coming thick and fast, his breathing erratic and harsh. Derek’s unsure how well Stiles will cope with being touched right now, doesn’t want to make things worse, but feels himself moving anyway, sitting next to Stiles and slipping an arm around his shoulders. 

Something must snap in Stiles then, because he practically falls into Derek, face pressed into his shoulder and hands fisted in his shirt. Derek rests his arms tentatively around him, and they sit there for a few moments, Stiles pulling shuddering breaths against him. Stiles eventually pulls back slightly, eyes redder than before, face puffy and blotchy. Derek lets his hand brush lightly over the hairs at the nape of Stiles’ neck as he pulls back, and says, “I’m going to call him, okay? Whatever you decide to do, you need him to know.”

Stiles doesn’t respond for a moment, before jerking his head in a quick nod. Derek nods back and lets a loose smile sit on his face for a moment, before reaching for his phone. He calls the Sheriff’s office, manages to get put through immediately, and within a minute and a half has explained that Stiles has been attacked, is now safe at his house, but that the Sheriff should come immediately. He doesn’t need much convincing.

It’s maybe fifteen minutes before the Sheriff arrives. Derek and Stiles had sat in silence, Stiles watching nothing, picking at the hem of his jeans, Derek watching Stiles. It’s not necessarily an uncomfortable silence. It just is.

The Sheriff offers Derek a quick greeting before pushing his way into the room and straight to where Stiles is sat on the couch. He takes up Derek’s previous position, sitting on the coffee table in front of him, eyes filled with concern. As with Derek, Stiles isn’t meeting his eyes.

“Stiles?” The Sheriff asks quietly. “Stiles, what happened?” 

He reaches a hand out and takes one of Stiles’ in it. Stiles flinches, but holds on. 

“I was attacked,” he says. He takes a breath. “These guys-“

Stiles presses his free hand to his mouth as something – a sob maybe – escapes him, and he wipes his eyes before continuing. “They jumped me when I was leaving the store, and – they dragged me – I don’t know where – there were ropes – I don’t – I’m sorry, Dad.”

His words are barely audible through the sobs by the time he finishes speaking, and the Sheriff sits next to him on the couch, pulling Stiles into him as he gives into crying for the second time. He looks at Derek, panic and pain painted on his face, along with a question, some kind of ‘does this mean what I think it means?’ 

Derek nods.

The Sheriff lets his eyes close momentarily, pulls Stiles even closer, rocks him slightly. “Shh, it’s okay, son. I got you. You’re okay.”

Derek clears his throat and speaks. “I cleaned up some of his injuries on his top half as best I could, but couldn’t do anything else.”

The Sheriff nods in response and runs a hand over Stiles’ hair. “We should go to the hospital,” he says, both to Stiles and to himself, and Derek is relieved when Stiles doesn’t seem to protest. It’s a few more minutes before he manages to calm down again; the Sheriff helps him stand gingerly, arms still around him, and they begin walking to the door. 

Derek is still at the door as they pass and the Sheriff rests a hand against his shoulder for a brief moment, not saying thank you, but meaning it. Derek nods and stands back as he watches them leave. He can still smell Stiles’ pain, his distress, but it’s not as strong as when he arrived, and he knows that, whatever happens from then on, at least Stiles will have his dad. 

He looks back to the sofa, to Stiles’ bloody shirt and the rest of the first aid kit spread out on the table. 

*******************************************

It’s a few weeks before Derek sees Stiles again. He knows, in a way, that it’s a good thing. That he needs time with his father to try to recuperate, to make sense of what’s happened. But he can’t help but miss what he’d had with Stiles before, before he was attacked. 

They weren’t a thing, not by a long shot, but they were a something, had started spending more time together. A couple of movie trips, a few nights playing video games. They’d been getting closer, and Derek, as selfish as it was, missed that. 

He’d never do anything to risk Stiles’ wellbeing though, so he stays clear for as long as he feels necessary. After three weeks, he stops round at the Stilinski’s, at a time when he knows the Sheriff will be home. He isn’t expecting a warm welcome necessarily, fidgets nervously as he knocks on the door. Maybe he should have waited, should have waited for Stiles to contact him. 

He’s just about to turn to leave when the door opens, and the Sheriff is standing before him. “Derek,” he says, his voice neutral. Derek nods, offers a small smile. There’s a moment of silence before she says, “You coming in, son? We’re about to have dinner, and I’m pretty sure we have spare.”

*******************************************

The first thing Derek notices is how well Stiles looks, how well he’s recovered from his injuries. He’s laying out the table, moving with just the slightest discomfort in his ribs. Derek notices that the sores on his wrists and hands seem nothing but faint pink scars, and the bruise on his face is all but disappeared. He looks up when Derek enters, looks momentarily startled, before relaxing, and lifting a hand in a quick greeting.

“Hi,” he says, laying out silverware. 

“Stiles, lay Derek a place, please?” the Sheriff calls out from behind Derek. Stiles nods and smiles briefly, turning to grab another plate as the Sheriff wanders to the kitchen.

“How are you?” Derek asks.

Stiles nods as he lays a plate. He hesitates for a moment, before saying, “I’m okay, actually. I think. Physically. Speaking to someone too.” He pauses again. “I think I’ll get there.”

Detecting no lie, Derek smiles genuinely for the first time in weeks. He helps Stiles lay the table. Their hands brush. It feels like something.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading - sorry it's so depressing! I had an idea and couldn't quite let go of it. I know it's short and could probably be better, but this was my first Teen Wolf fic, so I'm happy with it anyway. And any and all criticism is welcome! This is currently meant to be a one-shot, but I do have other ideas so I could possibly add more. Come see me at slowunsteady.tumblr.com :)


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